


Collector's Item

by osprey_archer



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once he’s slept with Suzie and Ianto and Tosh, it’s only natural that Jack should turn his eye on Owen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collector's Item

So much wandering the universe ought to have given Jack a Zen-like aversion to possessions. They only weigh him down, they always seem to be useless in the end, and if he’s carrying around something of sentimental value it’s bound to be used against him sometime, so really, why not give up on the whole concept? 

But now that Jack’s settled, at least for the moment, he’s become a hoarder. He has the Doctor’s hand, he has shelves of cool weird stuff from the Rift, he’s become a collector par excellence. 

So it’s only natural that Jack should turn his eye on Owen once he’s slept with Suzie and Ianto and Tosh.

Jack plans Operation Owen carefully. First, intelligence gathering. Owen is aggressive, he likes to think he’s tough. He thinks violence is sexy—he’s sleeping with Suzie, after all. 

Thus, the appropriate theater of operation: the weapons room. The strategy: a slow, steady seduction technique, followed by the overwhelming force of Jack’s concentrated lust. Weapon of choice: Cobrian automatic rifle. It demands a very specific leg stance.

Jack has to adjust Owen’s stance a lot. One arm on his waist, the other on his thigh, tugging here, there, rubbing up and down. He waited until Owen wore his thinnest pair of jeans to drag him down to weapons practice.

The muscles in Owen’s thighs twitch under Jack’s hand. Owen’s neck, just a little lower than Jack’s nose, flushes scarlet. Jack blows on the hairs at the nape of Owen’s neck and Owen’s back arches. 

“You’re destroying your stance,” says Jack, firmly pulling Owen back in line. “Do you want to be eaten by aliens?” 

“Why can’t I just use a handgun?” demands Owen. 

“Because this rifle is the only thing that kills Thestavians,” says Jack, inventing a new alien race on the spot. “Spread your legs a little more. Just. Like. That.” 

Patience has never been Jack’s strong suit. His hand slips into Owen’s crotch just a little too soon, and Owen jumps away and slams the rifle into Jack’s head and Jack’s head explodes, or at least it feels like it does. Next thing he knows, he’s on the ground, and Owen stands over him flushed and furious and sexy as hell. 

Unfortunately for Jack’s libido, by the time he’s on his feet again Owen has fled the weapons room and nothing Jack can say will get him back down there. 

Jack files Operation Owen in the back of his mind, and sometimes when he’s bored he’ll embroider on it. Eventually something terrible will try to off Owen; eventually, Owen will want to learn how to use more firepower. 

Jack waits.

***

Eventually happens just after Suzie gets obsessed with the resurrection glove. Owen nearly gets eaten by a tentacled thing in a bog because he can’t quite aim a gun when he’s panicked.

“None of that Cobrian thing, though,” he says. “Or next time you get shot I’m just letting you bleed to death.” 

“Thestravians—”

“You made them up,” says Owen. “I had Ianto check the archives.” 

Fortunately, Jack’s musings over Operation Owen led him to one of the prize pieces of his weapons collection: Centauri sabers. They worked with Tosh, after all.

The sabers are long and slender, more like foils really, and their cross guards glitter with rhinestones. Owen picks one up with a look of disdain. “This looks like a Barbie sword,” he says, bending the blade into a circle.

“It’s a Centauri saber,” says Jack. “Hit the button right under the cross guard. Third curlicue. The red rhinestone.” 

The first time Tosh turned on a Centauri saber, she shrieked “Star Wars!” and oozed happy geekery all over the room. Owen likes to pretend that he’s cool so he doesn’t say anything, but he can’t quite hide his smile when he turns on the sword and it glows and crackles. 

“Feet orthogonal,” says Jack, moving to stand behind Owen. “Shoulder width apart. Did you ever fence? Hold your wrist firm.” He corrects Owen’s grip and pushes down on Owen’s shoulders until he’s in a position guaranteed to make his ankles ache in five minutes or less. He doesn’t touch Owen’s thighs this time. “I’ve set the sabers to stun.”

“How do you set them to kill?”

“I’ll tell you after practice. Salute your opponent. En garde!” 

Lunge, parry, riposte, remise. Owen fails at fencing but he’s enjoying himself, his face flushed, grinning—and for once it’s not at anyone else’s expense. Jack goes slow, gives Owen time to get good and sweaty so his shirt clings to his chest. 

“Speed up,” Owen gasps, lunging and missing Jack by about a mile. 

“I don’t think you can take the heat.”

“Try me!” shouts Owen, twirling his blade in a showy manner that’s practically an invitation to be stabbed. 

Jack lunges, Owen parries, remise, parry again, Jack speeds up the pace till he’s backing Owen around the room. Owen’s cheeks are pink, his face set in concentration, but he’s getting tired, he’s making mistakes, and his saber jerks and Jack by accident strikes him on the arm. 

Owen collapses glassy-eyed and dead-looking, all the color drained out of his cheeks, and Jack forgets its only stun and drops to his knees straddling Owen’s chest and kisses Owen like he’s Sleeping Beauty. 

Owen comes to in the middle of the third kiss, opens his mouth so Jack can kiss him properly for the fourth and fifth, and realizes where he is and who he’s kissing in the middle of the sixth. “Get off me,” Owen gasps, and pushes Jack off his chest.

“Thought it might make you feel better,” Jack says. Any explanation will be inadequate; _you looked dead_ sounds like an exercise in necrophilia. 

Owen glowers and brushes himself off like an insulted cat. “Fuck you,” he says. 

“Any time,” says Jack. Owen flings the saber at his head and stalks off. 

***

After that Jack puts Operation Owen on hold again, because Suzie dies and he has Operation Gwen to deal with, and then there’s just generally mayhem: cyberwomen and cannibals and Ianto, Ianto, Ianto. Owen nearly commits suicide by Weevil. His bruises are spectacular when he comes back to work. 

Jack would offer to kiss them better but he suspects Owen wouldn’t appreciate it.

Three days after Owen’s return, so late that Ianto has left the Hub, Jack sits at his desk so bored that he’s considering letting Myfanwy eat him (would he resurrect before or after digestion? Because he’s kind of curious what being digested would feel like). Owen comes in, leaning against the door, bruises sharp against his face. 

“Anything I can do for you?” Jack asks, after Owen spends three minutes silently glaring at the floor.

Owen looks up and walks over and straddles Jack’s hips, and says, “Fuck me.”

Jack can tell that this is Owen’s idea of self-punishment, and saying yes would be practically criminal, but Owen gives him a bite that’s a kiss and Jack has never been good at saying no. He half-carries Owen to his room, and Owen bites his lips and his neck and his shoulders. 

Jack pushes Owen onto the bed and lies next to him, his chest to Owen’s back. Owen’s breath is harsh and angry, lustless. 

Jack takes pride in his work. Owen’s not getting out of this without an orgasm. He loops his arm between Owen’s legs, stroking. Owen isn’t even hard. 

Owen shifts away from Jack, staring fixedly at the shelves of Rift detritus on the opposite wall. “What’s that?” he mutters, cool. 

“Junk,” Jack murmurs, leaning up on his free elbow so he can see Owen’s face. “Bits and pieces from the Rift.” Owen’s eyes are open but not looking at anything. Jack kisses Owen’s ribs, the hollows of his collarbones, the line of his jaw. “Bric-a-brac,” he murmurs, licking Owen’s neck. Owen closes his eyes. “Leftovers from a cosmic jumble sale—” He bites Owen’s neck, and Owen moans. 

All right then. Jack bites harder, squeezes Owen, digs his fingers into Owen’s ribs. “Curios,” Jack breathes. “They used to keep curio cabinets. I knew a guy who had shrunken heads and scalps and a stuffed baby crocodile.” Owen’s moving with him, his gasps strangled as if he doesn’t want Jack to hear. Jack bites his shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, and wrenches Owen’s legs apart. Owen cries out. “Also an incredible collection of dirty postcards. Egypt, Saigon, Hong Kong, Singapore,” sliding his fingers into Owen. 

“Harder, damn you,” snarls Owen, arching against him. 

Jack rams into him. “The best the British Empire had to offer,” he says, biting the back of Owen’s neck and digging his nails into his thighs. Owen bucks. Jack thinks he might be crying. “Only guy I ever met who looked better than Ianto in a suit. And damn,” slamming into Owen again, “but it took forever to get him out of it—”

Owen gasps and chokes and comes, and he really is crying. Jack’s not quite sure why (he didn’t hurt him that much, did he?), and he wants to hold Owen and soothe him and pull him out of this masochistic suicidal netherworld Owen’s created for himself, but Owen’s on his feet and dressing and gone. There’s blood on the sheets from the bites and broken stitches. 

Later, when the Rift is open and the world is ending and Owen finally shoots him, Jack doesn’t entirely blame him.


End file.
